Scars
by finalproblem
Summary: Even after many months, Holmes is still affected by events that took place during his battle with Professor James Moriarty, and when the scars he received show through, Watson steps forward and comforts his good friend. -NOT SLASH-


**PLEASE NOTE: This contains spoilers for Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows and also may be a little confusing if you have not yet seen the movie. Please take this into consideration before reading. Thank you!**

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><p>It had been two months since the remarkable return of my greatest friend, Sherlock Holmes, after I had believed him to be dead. I had, to my complete horror, witnessed him tumble over the Reichenbach Falls in the great country of Switzerland. He had fallen hundreds of meters down into the swirling mass of violent water and foam, and with him he had taken the world's most formidable criminal, Professor James Moriarty, and together they had streaked through the roaring waterfall and into the misty pit below. Yes, I had good reason to believe him dead, but he had indeed returned to the world of the living, much to the surprise of most, myself included.<p>

And, now that the rooms at Baker Street once again housed the world's only consulting detective, I visited them regularly to keep my very good friend company and to make sure that he would not suddenly slip away from me as he had on that fateful day in the Swiss Alps.

Our adventure against the great criminal had been an amazing one, and we had both come away from it alive and successful in the endeavors my companion had wished to accomplish - that is, the ultimate destruction of Professor Moriarty. We had not been through so much, however, without suffering a few scars, both mental and physical.

Though I had openly admitted and revealed the scars I had received during our adventure, Holmes was less willing to admit to his wounds, as he was a proud man, but as his closest friend I knew that they existed and were more severe than any he had received previously. I did care for the man, despite his arrogance, sarcasm, and general air of playful treachery, so I did my best to keep my eye on his health.

Sherlock Holmes was not one to show weakness, but the long fight against Moriarty, who to this day has been Holmes' only equal, was certainly not an easy one.

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><p>It was a quiet afternoon in the very heart of springtime when I announced to my wife that I would be departing for 221B Baker Street. After a quick kiss from my dear Mary, I left my own rooms at Cavendish Place and headed for the ones at Baker.<p>

I was to meet Holmes at his residence, and then enjoy dinner with him at The Royale, where there would be a group of musicians providing entertainment for tonight only. I figured that Holmes, even if he didn't believe so, needed a bit of fresh air.

I visited Holmes at his quarters about once a week – I did not accompany him on his adventures any more, but I did want to see him as often as I could. At first, I was worried that my wife would not approve of this, but I learned quickly that after everything Mary had seen and been through, she was very understanding when it came to my wish to visit my friend often.

When I arrived at Baker, Mrs. Hudson welcomed me with her usual smile. She invited me inside, saying Holmes was waiting for me. I walked up the familiar flight of stairs and opened the door at the top, which revealed the old sitting room, now free of overwhelming greenery and strange creatures – unless you counted my friend, who was standing in the middle of the room and adjusting the buttons on his waistcoat.

"Ah, there you are," said he, looking up as I entered. "I am nearly ready – give me a moment to retrieve my jacket, and we shall be on our way."

"That green waistcoat," I said, pointing at Holmes with my cane, "It's mine, isn't it?"

Holmes merely smiled, then disappeared for a moment, returning with his jacket as promised. "Come on, old boy," he said, stepping past me and into the hall. "I'm sure the cab outside is waiting for us most impatiently."

A moment later we were rumbling down the London streets, and we soon arrived at The Royale, where we were just in time for the start of the musicians' single-night show.

Holmes and I were seated at a small table quite close to the group of musicians, which pleased Holmes and put him in high spirits.

One of the violinists stepped forward and gave a short introduction. "Welcome to The Royale," he began, "And thank you for coming here tonight. We are very pleased to be here, and we shall be performing many pieces for your enjoyment – some French, a little German, and a few others. Thank you very much, and please enjoy your meals."

The music than began, and it was very pleasant and well-done, and I could see that Holmes enjoyed it thoroughly.

I talked with my dear friend for the majority of our dinner, and I found that he mostly wished to recount old cases of his, and we had a very nice time.

It was nearing on 8 PM when we were finished eating and ready to leave, and I suggested to Holmes that we depart.

"But, dear Watson," said he, "Let us enjoy the music for a moment longer. The violinist is quite talented – perhaps not as much as myself, but still talented, nonetheless."

I shook my head with a smile, but complied to his wishes.

I watched my friend's expression as he enjoyed the music, a small smile on his face and his eyes bright, and he clapped at the end of a particularly good piece, eagerly awaiting the next.

But as the next piece began, my friend's smile faded with great rapidity, and I saw, even if lasted only an instant, his body freeze with tension.

He turned to me suddenly, his expression still grim, and said quickly, "Well, I am ready to go. Shall we?"

I understood immediately, standing from the table and collecting my jacket while Holmes stepped quickly through the other tables and away from the musicians.

I followed him, my mind full of memories as _Die Forelle_ resounded throughout the restaurant, and I tried to focus on anything but the burning memory of the great speakers attached the tower in Germany which had blared this same tune, as well as the tortured screams of my friend.

I found Holmes standing outside the front door, waiting for me. He looked a little embarrassed, and I put a comforting hand around his shoulder as we headed away from the restaurant in search of a cab.

The ride back to Baker was a quiet one, as Holmes' chatty mood had minimized somewhat, but when we arrived back at his home, Holmes thanked me for the wonderful dinner and bid me adieu.

When I returned to my own home, I told Mary of our nice time. "Holmes enjoyed it too?" she said. "That's good – he's lucky to have a friend like you, John."

I stood by the bay window and peered out at the darkening London streets as I said quietly, "I worry about him sometimes."

"As you should, John," I heard her reply. "As you should."

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><p>It was just another day, coupled with another one of my weekly visits to my good friend, Sherlock Holmes, and I was excited to see him. It had been a few weeks since the dinner at The Royale, and Holmes seemed to be doing all right. He had taken up another case since then and solved it within a week, and he had talked of various small adventures like late-night sneaking and rope-climbing.<p>

So Holmes' time was once again free, and I was eager to visit him.

I arrived at Baker Street and was, as usual, greeted warmly by the dear landlady, who wore a look of both joy and relief on her face at my presence.

I headed upstairs and found my friend sitting quietly in his armchair beside the fireplace, where a small but warm fire was burning pleasantly.

"Ah, my dear Watson!" Holmes cried when he spotted me in the doorway, jumping up from his chair and greeting me. "It is always good to see you. Come, sit here, have a cigarette. Surely, you must have much to tell me, considering that you re-arranged the furniture of your master bedroom recently, or so I perceive."

I accepted the cigarette with a smile, now used to Holmes' professed statements about my home life. "Yes, Holmes," I said, amused, "Mary wanted the bed to be moved underneath the main window, so that she could more easily read in bed by daylight."

Holmes had pulled out his pipe and was puffing on it quietly. "Furniture arrangement is important," said he. "I rearrange this furniture occasionally to see what works best for my experiments."

"Yes, you rearranged it often while I was living here - sometimes I think you did it just to annoy me," I said, raising my eyebrows.

"Come now, old boy," Holmes cried. "Why on Earth would I ever take pleasure in annoying _you?"_

I sighed. "Why don't you tell me about this last case of yours? There was rope-climbing, or so you tell me?"

"My dear man," Holmes said, "I am afraid you are a bit behind on the times. I am no longer concerned with that case, as it is solved, but instead with something new and exciting – here, I must show you this intriguing letter of request I received in the post only just this morning. It is simply overflowing with the potential for adventure, Watson... shame you can't come along."

He peered at me with a lonesome expression, his grey eyes piercing me with a look of languish, but I had grown used to these looks, especially since my marriage, and instead I raised my eyebrows, asking, "Well, if you insist upon showing it to me, can I see it, then?"

"Ah, yes," Holmes said, quickly leaping to his feet and stepping over to a large wooden table that was pushed off to one side of the room.

My friend shuffled excitedly through massive piles of paper, stacks of books, old ink bottles, mysterious liquids in jars, other long-standing chemicals, and the random assortment of strange objects which he had collected throughout the years, and which littered the entire place.

"Hm," said he, after a few minutes of searching, "I believe it is concealed somewhere upon this table – ah! Here we are, under my eleven copies of _Oxford's English Dictionary_."

Holmes took the great mass of books in his arms and lifted them all at once, his face strained a little with the weight, and he turned to set them somewhere else. However, to my sudden surprise, my companion gave out a cry of pain and the books fell from his arms in a great clatter, exploding open upon the floor as he clutched his shoulder and stooped over the table, his free hand pushed against it for support.

"Holmes!" I cried, jumping to my feet and hurrying to collect the heavy books from the floor. "Are you all right?"

I gave him a look of deep concern as I set the heavy books back upon the table from which they had come. Holmes did not look me in the face, but clutched his shoulder with some force and muttered, his eyes on the ground.

"I'm fine, old boy. Fine."

But no trace of recovery from the sudden incident was present upon his features, and I insisted that he take a seat on the small couch present in the sitting room.

Holmes resisted at first, as I knew he would, but he eventually gave way to my pleas and perseverance. I left him to nurse his shoulder for a moment while I made a quick pot of tea, not wanting to bother Mrs. Hudson.

I returned to find him sitting upon the couch with his arm lying strangely across his lap, and I knew that his shoulder was still bothering him. "Here, Holmes," I said kindly, handing him the steaming cup. "It will do you good – and I made your favorite. Now," I said, giving him a moment to take a sip, "Let me see."

I immediately shot him a stern look, as I knew he would not be fond of this idea, but after giving me an annoyed glare Holmes turned his shoulder toward me and sipped his tea with a scowl.

I pushed back the collar of his shirt and inspected the awful scarring with plagued the flesh beneath. I did not know exactly what had happened to my friend, for he was not fond of speaking of it, but it had been I who had pulled the enormous meat-hook from his shoulder as my friend lay in piles of bricks and other debris, and it made me tremble just to think of it.

Even though that had happened long ago, Holmes was, much to his displeasure, still affected by the wound. A small patch of damaged skin was all that was present, but as I ran my fingers over the spot, I could see my companion wince.

"It will get better over time," I said to him. "But you shouldn't strain the muscles here too much, if you can help it. I'm sure that the rope-climbing adventure you embarked on recently didn't do much in the way of healing – go easy on yourself for a while, old boy. For your sake _and_ mine."

Holmes made no reply, but the pain he had experienced seemed to have passed, and he now sat still and relaxed, sipping on his tea.

"Just make sure you stay away from highly dangerous criminals, Germany, and meat-hooks for the time being, all right?" I said, gently pulling his collar back into place and sitting back. "You're a strong man, Holmes. That was a terrible wound Moriarty gave you – and you nearly died as a result. I really cannot imagine the pain it must have caused you. I shudder merely thinking about it."

Holmes was quiet for a moment, apparently lost in thought. "It was necessary," he said finally, "To obtain Moriarty's _pièce de résistance_. I was hoping that I could find a less painful way to gain access to the book's contents, but a window of opportunity arose and I took it. Besides," he said with a smile, "I am not the only man in this room who has suffered – or, at least, is affected by – a painful injury of the shoulder."

I nodded. "Yes, but I don't push myself to nearly impossible limits after receiving it, like you."

"I didn't have a choice!" Holmes cried, offended. "Would you rather I had strolled through the forest? Enjoyed the scenery? Been shot down in an instant?"

"Of course not!" I said, my brows furrowed. "But all that strain nearly killed you, Holmes. You almost _died._ On the train. And if you had truly left me, just like that, I don't know _what_ I would've done."

Holmes looked curiously at me for a moment, and then opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off.

"Selfish bastard," I said with a grin.

Holmes closed his mouth with surprise and a small smirk formed on his lips. He turned and set his teacup aside, and then gave me a benevolent look. "You know, my dear Watson," he said, suddenly quiet, "I never really thanked you properly for that."

At first I waited a moment for a sharp, playful insult, but it didn't come, and my friend looked down as he continued to speak, staring at the carpet, his hands clasped together.

"I would be dead if it was not for you," he said quietly. "You have saved my life more than once, whether it was that my actions were too rash, I was too bold, or," he looked up, "I was simply bested."

I was startled into silence – it was rare for Holmes to be so sincere.

"I hope you do not take my criticisms against you too seriously, old boy, as I really do find you to be a most perfect companion, even if you no longer accompany me on my cases."

My mouth hung open slightly. "Holmes –"

"So," he said loudly, cutting me off, "I would like to properly thank you."

He rose and fetched a bottle of brandy and a few glasses, pouring each of us a little. He raised his glass with a calm expression, his hand steady.

"To Doctor John H. Watson," he began, "For saving my life, trusting me even when I certainly should not have been trusted, journeying with me to drastic parts of this great land even if I had to force him into it, having the good trait in which he can forgive, being there when I most needed him and even when I did not, and most of all…"

Holmes' eyes met mine.

"For being the greatest friend an eccentric man like myself could ever hope to have."

And he clinked his glass with my own, drinking his brandy in a single swig. I did not follow his actions, but instead sat there with my own glass still in hand, very moved.

"Holmes," I began again. "I don't know what to say."

"Start with this," my friend said, pouring me a little more brandy, "And I mean what I said, old boy, I do hope you understand that."

His grey eyes flicked upward into mine once more, and he gazed at me with an appreciative expression.

I did the same.

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><p>AN: I know this has a few plot holes, but I do hope you can forgive me – I can't really fill them in at this time, considering in the '09/'11 movieverse, the method which Holmes used to return from the depths of the Falls and back into the lives of Watson and everyone else is currently unknown.

Personally, I thought _Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows_ was brilliant. It did occur to me after seeing it, however, that even a strong man like Holmes could not have walked away from that adventure without suffering a few scars - and so this came to be.

If you enjoyed this story, please leave a review and let me know! They make my whole day and I really appreciate the support. :)

_finalproblem_


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